Penitence Compunction
by BetweenTownleys
Summary: Wade suspects Trevor isn't telling him something important. SLASH Trevor/Michael Trevor/Wade [ongoing]
1. Chapter 1

**PENITENCE COMPUNCTION**

_By BetweenTownleys_

(Alternate working title: _There Is a Fucking Problem Here_)

_Notes: Trevor is total trash. This story contains lots of offensive and potentially triggering things like harsh language, mentions of incest, molestation, blood, gore, poop, drug abuse, bestiality and all kinds of other stuff Trevor is all about. So WATCH OUT! …For that. If that doesn't bother you, welcome to this disgusting trikey romance, you sick fuck. This is part 1 of a bunch of chapters, so get your boners ready. OK, thanks. _

* * *

As with most things in Trevor's life, it was undeniable that he was in this situation dick-deep.

In this particular case, it happened to be a literal interpretation. (Another common occurrence.) With the dragging groan of a tortured sow, the meth-addled reprobate released his load into the shivering juggalo beneath him. Bright white lights flashed like fire, then were gone. For long moments afterward Trevor stiffly kneaded the bony hips under his hands, eyelids clenched tight, his softening cock pulsing unsympathetically as it slid out from the battered hole. Wetness registered across his thighs, and the lowlife at length cracked an eye open. Between Trevor's palms was about what he had expected… glorious carnage. The angry red swell of abused meat and, of course, his own greasy baby batter. It was… everywhere. Fuck. When had that happened? Sometime between fucking on the kitchen counter, and fucking on the table by the busted television? (Or was it when they were UNDER the table? There was cum on the floorboards.) _But back to the ass in his hands_. That was what was important, here. It radiated heat like a goddamn coal furnace. Most _likely_ because it was a _nasty slurry of maltreated human garbage_. Kinda sticky. Definitely messy… and..? Yep, bloody. Shit. No going back into that hole anytime in the next 20 minutes.

And then the other thing registered; the thing Trevor hated most. The muffled whimpers of Wade Hebert as he bit into the couch like some little baby bitch. He was crying. Or at least TRYING not to cry. And failing. Again.

"For FUCKSAKE, Wade!" the balding man growled, shoving the other body forcefully away from himself. "WHAT did I tell you about the goddamn crying?!"

Trevor couldn't tolerate the blubbering which always seemed to come hand-in-hand with the aftermath of enjoying what at one point had been a reasonably average heterosexual human poop chute. This one, though resilient enough by his usual standards, suddenly seemed to Trevor as if it had seen better days. Or was that kinder days? It didn't matter in the long run, considering Trevor Philips fucked whatever the fuck Trevor Philips wanted to fuck, WHEN he wanted to fuck it. But even some assholes had their limits.

"…sorry Trevor," the quivering boy groveled, meekly peeking over his shoulder with a ruddy face. "you… you ain't gonna make me do that dance again, is you?"

A murderous look silenced Wade and the boy clambered up off the couch and onto shaky legs, before he shuffled away awkwardly for the bathroom. Trevor watched him cross the floor of his trailer, already feeling the familiar ache again in the pit of his balls. Slowly, it coiled like a snake.

Trevor Philips was angry. And he was horny. GOD, FUCK, was he horny. But mostly he was angry. Obviously the meth did it's fair share in the hearty encouragement of these things, but Trevor liked to reason that if he'd been living the saintly life of a monk in a pastoral farming monastery, he STILL would have been angry and horny enough right now to fuck a good third of the livestock to death. It wasn't a bad fantasy to entertain. Actually, sometimes he entertained the thought of fucking animals to death when he was alone in the morning. Or when he was watching Ashley getting hammered in the ass by her faggot biker boyfriend. Or when a stoplight was taking too long.

But… It was just…. the thing was….

….it just…

It hurt. It hurt.

What? But, what was that? What, exactly, hurt? A preposterous line of queries, repeat offenders Trevor mulled over every time he caught a glance of his mildewing face in the back of a spoon, a car window, a pool of blood.

The answer was simple. And yet… too…. _fucking…._ COMPLEX…. for even Trevor's mental aptitudes to really fully encompass, despite how smart he tried to convince himself he actually was. It was just… Everything.

Everything hurt.

Everything? But how could EVERYTHING hurt? The middle-aged man keened the same lonely questions over again to himself, and ran a callused hand up over his bald spot to wipe some of the sweat away. Over the past few months, the thoughts had been dogging him constantly. More than they ever had. It was absurd. _'Everything'_ covered a fucking TON of subject material, after all.

_Everything_ was the first cup of coffee in the morning. It was the hard flat pack of his fist making contact with flesh. It was orgasms, and pissing on daffodils and burning a hole in your pants after falling asleep with a cigarette dangling on your lip. It was twitching out and huffing gasoline and vomiting blood. It was model airplanes. It was being 30,000 feet in the air on a clear blue day. But it _did_ hurt. Maybe not every time, but always sometimes. Everything. Trevor knew, from the tips of his toes to the top of his skull. He just… fucking… KNEW. That nothing in his life was ever gonna be right again. COULD NEVER be right again.

Not since Yankton. Not when it had been so right before. And now it wasn't. _la __vie dure._

The couch under his fingers felt wet with grease and dirt. Trevor regarded his naked thighs with a dead stare, noting the green tinge his skin took under the neon sign hung above his fridge. His teeth hurt. A feverish glance brought the ex-pilot's eyes up to scour the room. The bowl was there, on the floor beneath the counter, and yet somehow unbroken. A bag of crystal laid several feet away, upturned but sealed in a plastic ziplock bag. Trevor had no memory of shoving it off the counter, but immediately understood that he must have done so. He would hit Wade about it later. A fine sheen of sweat broke out across his palms as he crouched forward.

Sure, there had been plenty of time between North Yankton and now. Nine years, actually. But it had been nine years of dwelling. Nine years of playing the _bitter widow_. He'd tried to move on. The time had even given him a few opportunities… starting his little family and seeding thoughts for his enterprise, for example. And time for other things. To periodically go back up north and stomp around in the snowy mud and piss on tombstones in the graveyard he hated so much, to pretend it was because he was only furious. Anger he could use now to blow fire on anyone who came too close. And time even after that to develop a truly _righteous_ drug regiment to fill up all the leftover empty spaces. Not too shabby, all around. The only problem was, when you bury enough corpses in the same area, eventually you start digging up old ones.

A crumpled letter from Brad sat shoved to the far end of the counter, weighted down by a figurine of Impotent Rage. It had too many words like _'back then'_ and '_I wish'_ or_ 'do you remember'_ for Trevor to stomach reading it again.

So it hurt. Everything. And on nights like this one, sometimes it felt like there was barely a point in holding anything together at all.

Barely.

"You got any morea that, uh, gosh, I guess dish soap?"

Wade's lisp sounded through the muffled bathroom door just as Trevor hit the bowl in his hand. He slowly let out an acrid white breath as he pictured the expendable juggalo scooping cum out of his now cavernous back entrance. He chose not to reply, instead leering off into the distance as a surge of vibratory anger prickled his flesh with goosebumps. On a second impulse, he set the bowl down and leaned back against his couch. A dirty hand ran up beneath the grubby white shirt he wore, pausing to flick over the nub of his left nipple. Miserable and naked from the waist down, Trevor ground his teeth together and relented to the inevitable hunger focused in and around the area of his cock. With a frustrated snarl, he wrapped his fingers around its rock-solid mass and started pumping.

"Didja hear what I- oh," Wade's face went from blank to crestfallen as he peered back out into the main part of the trailer. "Heck, Trevor, you got more wood than a forest fulla dang trees!"

"Get over here, princess," the criminal grit through a clamped jaw. "God didn't give you a tongue so you could fucking _talk to me_ with it!"

A look of trepidation crossed Wade's face, even as he took a halting step forward. "I thought you said we was gonna smoke after we-"

"Oh, _oh,_ _please_, be my guest!" The suddenly syrupy tone of friendliness should have been a tip-off.

Trevor gestured with the suspicious good manners of a talk show hostess to the bowl sitting on the couch at his side. Wade moved in immediately. When he was in close range, Trevor looped his free hand around the back of Wade's neck and slammed his skull backwards into the wall of the trailer. It left a loud dent, but then again, the trailer certainly had more pressing problems than a few bloody craters. On the ground by Trevor's erection, Wade sat moaning with his head clamped in his hands. Red dribbled through a few of his knuckles.

And then, what was that? Was he crying? Again?

AGAIN again?

"GOD _DAMN IT _WADE WHAT DID I SAY TO YOU ABOUT THE _FUCKING_ CRYING?"

"I'm SORRY TREVOR, I'm _soooorrrry_!" the druggie wailed from between his fingers, clearly no longer capable of containing the unquenchable well of tears that now spurt from his face, along with jet streams of blood.

A long, frustrated groan cut across the sound of crying.

"Would you just SHUT UP already!?" Patience finally snapped, Trevor jerked Wade's head forward and roughly pushed him down onto what was now his exceedingly, supremely hard erection. The boy's tears cut off in a sudden _'ulp!'_ of surprise, then, silence.

Then, the slow, resigned sucking noise of someone who knows they have been defeated.

At last, the cruelty in Trevor's hands melted away a little. Instead, after a moment, he smoothed his palm out over the back of Wade's dreadlocks. It was almost tender.

"Hmmmmmm, yeah baby…. _yeahhhh_… just like that."

Wade took the dick down his throat with the resigned dedication of a martyr. His ass was still on fire, blood was trickling down his nose and getting all mixed up with the dick taste, and his right knee felt a pang he assumed was broken glass from under the couch, but he'd had worse. He was used to swallowing things. If it was a cock, a lie, or a tall, icy glass of Faygo, it seemed not to matter. (Secret: Wade preferred the Faygo.)

It was hard to say how many times this exact pattern had repeated itself in the past. However, it was an undeniable fact that with Trevor, his desire to fuck whatever hole Wade currently didn't have his hand over went in ebbs and flows. Sometimes he could go weeks without throwing the juggalo so much as an annoyed side-eye. Occasionally, he would even buy them ice cream, handing the cone over with a disconcertingly fatherly expression of both amusement and love. Wade obviously wondered about it, as far as he was able to do so. He had always assumed that in the end the weird behavior was on account of the fact that Trevor was so smart. Smarter than Ron. Smarter than _a lot_ of folks. And smart people had agendas he was just not ever gonna be able to understand. But Wade never wondered quite as hard about the inconsistencies as when they were in the middle of an act itself. It was _always_ scary, but sometimes, it could be _really_ _confusing_ too. Wade was accustomed to being confused, but Trevor's brand of confusing was an entirely different venue altogether.

With light fingers, Trevor dug beneath Wade's dreadlocks and settled his hand at the nape of his neck, eyes closed, clearly in a distant fantasy. The callused hand felt out the bobbing motions with tense enjoyment. Wade had once made the mistake of attempting to ask a question before Trevor had come, and the black eye he had gotten as a result was bad enough that Ron had complained about it for a week. Yet still, on a different occasion, Wade recalled Trevor's fingers tracing the sides of his face with remarkable delicacy. The hands had moved under to brush his chin, just before the con man had muttered the words_ 'God, I love you so much'_ in a tone which Wade assumed must have come from watching one-too-many daytime TV soaps. Trevor Philips somehow had the ability to be both tremendously kind, _and_ tremendously cruel.

So. Knowing all this, even a complete moron like Wade knew his chances were at their best if he just dutifully sucked Trevor off without a single word. Uncle Thoroughgood had taught him that. (Or had it been Kush-Chronic?) Anyway, it was a task to which he now applied himself thoroughly.

Something about Trevor recently, though… definitely something with him was a little squirrely. Kinda funny. A little… _off_. The problem was just that in Trevor's case, even being just a little '_off_' could be disastrous. Once, when Trevor was feeling _a little off_ (he'd said, 'Wade, I'm feeling _a little off_ today') he'd gotten a burnt bag of french fries from a Burger Shot then driven a Ford Escape through the front window. But at the moment, Wade just wondered at the gentle hands on the back of his head. He wondered at them, and was briefly thankful that Trevor wearing no pants also meant that Trevor's guns were at least 5 feet away. Small blessings.

Soft groans sloughed like loose gravel through the quiet trailer, a low, long bass to Wade's sucking staccato. The dick in his mouth was as hard as granite, and deceptively silky. But when Wade allowed himself a peek of Trevor's sweating face, it gave no hint of the fantasy passing behind his closed eyes. Thick eyebrows drawn together into a serious line, Trevor panted heavily through clenched teeth and parted lips.

"… God, I love you… I fucking _love_ you…." the surprising words revealed themselves unexpectedly yet again, and Wade paused, a momentary glitch, if out of nothing else other than shock. The pause was met with a rough growl, and suddenly Trevor's hands were violent again. Taking hold of Wade's hair in a tight fist, Trevor thrust sharply up into his throat, shoving down simultaneously from above. The boy audibly gagged, his hands flapping uselessly like a baby bird's wings in pathetic protest. A few more thrusts and Wade managed to grip back onto Trevor's knees again. Together they worked like that, Trevor's hips bucking violently up against the head in his grip, and Wade anchoring himself like a ship at port during a storm.

Whatever was wrong with Trevor, Wade certainly didn't suspect an explanation would be presented to him plainly. He certainly didn't expect nuggets of knowledge to fall on him like mana while Trevor skull fucked his mouth hole for all it was worth (visa vis their pre established agreement about drugs and the group consumption thereof.) And yet Wade suddenly found himself once again, supposedly, in the right place at the right time. With a final rasping growl Trevor thrust forward and shoved Wade's head harshly into his lap as he came, a single name forcing itself desperately through his clenched teeth.

When Trevor was done, he sat back with a huff which might have been exhaustion, and might have been frustration. Most likely it was a sweaty combination of both, Wade thought as he swallowed what had to be a quart of cum. He grimaced at the taste, but knew better than to spit the load out anywhere he could be seen.

Trevor sighed heavily once, licked his lips a few times, wiped some slime off the side of his thigh, and then finally did a double take at Wade who he realized then was staring at him.

"...What?"

Wade looked stumped. That is to say, he looked more stumped than he usually did on any given day. Mild autism would be a lucky diagnosis for Wade's laundry list of problems. Not to mention that time with the shovel and his ex-step-brother Nelson back in 1997.

"…Well you had said, uh…"

Trevor waited a beat, his legs still hanging wide open. "…What? I said what?"

Did he not realize he'd said that name out loud? A fart-like expression of consternation overtook Wade, and Trevor rolled his eyes.

"What is it? I don't have all fucking day_, __débile bouché_, what the fuck do you want?"

"….uh…" weighing his options in this situation, Wade opted then to listen to the flat lining noise his brain was currently making. In the name of personal safety, he would go with the always-solid reply of total silence.

Another minute was spent staring at each other. Trevor clearly perplexed, snorted once and cuffed Wade across the right ear. "You, my friend, are a waste of human space and resources, let me tell ya."

The man on the couch observed the blood smeared across his favorite toy's face, and the subject shifted again.

"…Does Wadey want an ice-cream?"

Was that even a question? Was Trevor not mad anymore? The smile that lit Wade's face almost completely obliterated the thought he had been perched on the edge of until that moment. But as Trevor moved off, his slick and mercifully limp dick swinging as he went, the question doubled back around one last time.

Who the HECK was _Michael_?


	2. Chapter 2

"You uh, know anybody named… uh, _Michael_?" Wade's dulcet question bounced off the back of Ron's head.

The name felt uncomfortable to Wade as it hung in-between them, like a too-tight pair of new underwear. At first Ron appeared to not have heard the words at all.

"…_Michael_?" At last the silence broke. "Michael, Michael… hmmm." The older man chewed on the name, ruminating.

Ron was running his hands along the wall of his small front porch, apparently hunting for something. By this point in their association, it was beyond Wade to question what exactly Ron was searching _for_. Probably for aliens. Or pillbugs. Or microphones, or carbon monoxide or maybe his probably dead ex-wife. Wade had no idea, though Ronald appeared to be operating as a man with a mission. It was high noon in Sandy Shores, and the bucket hat Ron was currently sporting had dropped a dark blue shadow beneath the brim across his face. He looked as focused as he had ever been.

The middle aged man fumbled in his pocket for a screwdriver. "Why do you ask? You got business with this guy?"

Wade sat in a lawn chair by the door. "Aww, just somethin' Trevor said."

"_Trevor_?" The name was spit out with more intensity than the average word. After, Ron became flustered for a few moments, his head shaking back and forth as if he were making checks on a mental grocery list.

"Oh, THAT Michael. I see now. He's dead."

The juggalo looked up. Dim-witted shock painted his face more clearly than the ICP makeup smeared there in juvenile patterns.

"Dead?" he queried, with all the innocence of a sweet young school marm. "Wadda ya mean, dead?"

"I mean _not alive_." The shuffling man clarified. He paused to run his hands suspiciously up the outer frame of his front door, then brought his screwdriver up to pry the molding away by a few centimeters. He peered behind it with narrowed eyes.

"...Michael. Michael Torning, or, or… _T-something_. Trevor's best friend, from years ago."

The sour look on Ron's face as the words _'Trevor's best friend' _passed through his lips made his feelings on the subject plain. The fact that they were discussing a dead person did little to ebb away the obvious jealousy there.

Wade stared with wide, unblinking eyes. Finally looking away, his vision melted into the distance as he attempted to piece together the jigsaw puzzle's worth of evidence he'd gathered from over the years. It was a difficult task, all things considered. Wade knew fuckall about Trevor's past except that he came from up north, and honestly, even if he did know more, it would hardly be helpful. Between the enigma of Trevor Philips and the low-capacity wattage of Wade Hebert's basic brain functions, not a lot could be scraped into place. Wade frowned.

"You gotta take a shit? What's your problem?" the edge of Ron's face peered back at the kid from over a preoccupied shoulder.

"Huh? Nuh-uh! I was just thinkin'…"

"Uh-oh!" Ron joked, not unlovingly. Wade's frown tugged up into a little grin.

"I was thinkin', and… uh, well, what happened to that fella? That _Michael_? How'd he die? I ain't never heard Trevor talk about him much except, uh…" his grin vanished. "…once or twice."

Ron shrugged, turning fully back to his task at hand. "Who knows? I think he… got shot? Way I understand it, they weren't on great terms anyway, when that guy kicked it. Something about a fight over a stripper. Who cares? You know Trevor can get like that when he's riled up. Just forget about it."

"Dang! Well, was it Trevor that had shot hi-?"

"RON! BRING ME SOME COFFEE RIGHT NOW BEFORE I _FUCK A NEW EYEHOLE_ INTO THE SIDE OF YOUR CHEEK!"

The startled jump Ronald made at the sound of Trevor's unexpected bellow was violent enough to send his screwdriver scratching across his trailer's siding. A long white line marked the surface, forgotten immediately as the man whipped around.

"C-COMING, TREVOR!" he shouted, and dropped the screwdriver like it was hot iron. One last glance at Wade announced the end of their conversation. "Just forget about it. It's not important!" he repeated again, before turning on a heel and jogging off.

Wade continued to frown as he watched Ronald beating a hasty retreat. Across the yard, he saw that Trevor had lumbered out onto his porch, sweaty and shirtless like some hulking, snarling animal freshly risen from a deep hibernation. Oddly, this wasn't too far from the actual truth, considering how hard and long the criminal tended to sleep after going on a nasty bender. Wade's asshole twinged involuntarily a moment later, when the sound of Trevor's fist slamming into his front door echoed across the lot. When he punched the door again, apparently for no reason, the young man looked uncomfortably away, already beginning to feel the first prickles of fear in the pit of his stomach.

"WADE." The voice cut across him with a violent sharpness, like a crack across the face. Trevor _had_ always been able to instinctively sense his fear. "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING JUST _SITTING_ THERE? GO MAKE ME SOME MONEY! WHAT DO YOU THINK THIS IS, EH? SOME KIND OF GODDAMN SPA RESORT? GET THE FUCK UP!"

Immediately Wade jumped up to follow the command, jogging quickly across the yard to where a row of ATV's had been parked in a line. Wordlessly, he glanced over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of Trevor's agitated face, but paused at what he saw instead. The balding man had slumped down onto the couch on the porch, his tough hands circling the nape of his neck as he cradled his skull between his arms.

In his head, Wade involuntarily ran through the moment he couldn't forget, one more time. The desperate hands, the clenched teeth. That look of pain, as if it were a cap to everything else, a seal on the pit in which the cesspool of Trevor's emotions churned in angry tidal waves. The casing on a bomb.

'_Michael_.'

Wade clambered up onto an ATV and quickly fled the area.

/

Michael Townley did NOT suck cock.

It was below him. Or, was that _above_ him? He HAD always been an arrogant, self-important shit stain, too absorbed in his own storybook fantasies to look around and take notice of his place in life, surrounded by garbage and living in a dump like all the rest of them were. Whatever. He just…

_Did. Not. Suck. Cock_. He didn't do it.

But his decidedly patchy morals were thinner in other areas. Enjoyably filthier areas, Trevor's slurred memories reminded him. He pumped his erection with a furious determination, and recalled the feeling of Michael's tight, wet hole clamping uncomfortably around the tip of his index finger. It was moments like these that Trevor allowed himself free-reign to imagine what he liked, taking the opportunity to work Michael's perfect, fat belly with his engorged erection, imagining rutting against his meaty ribs, smelling the smell of his sweat, his armpits, his balls, the backs of his ears. To see in his mind's eye the lurid fantasy he found himself constantly focused on, of Michael's narrow frown wrapped with purpose around his cock, his own hand shoved down the front of his pants. Trevor groaned, and swept a hand down over his balls, pushing the pressure forward and up until he felt sure he would burst like a rotten fruit. They never kissed, but imagining that they had was the last thought to tip him over the edge. Thinking of Michael's thin lips on his own, Trevor came with an angry snarl in hot, thick ropes across his naked chest. For long moments after, he laid in his bed, panting in staggered breaths like a dog in the sun. He was hungry. Ravenous, even. But somehow, never for food.

The room felt utterly empty then, and an unexpected surge of fear and panic jolted through Trevor's prone body like a bolt of lightning. He sat up with a gasp, his shortness of breath causing his heart to make a raucous cacophony inside the cage of his chest.

_Michael Townley was gone._

Michael Townley was _gone_. It _still _hurt. Michael Townley was _fucking dead_, and somehow despite all this, all Trevor could ever manage to do was savagely beat off to the bastardized memory of his missing friend, the greatest man he had ever known. Where was the fucking _respect_? With a disgusted grunt, Trevor scraped his fingers across his chest and flicked his jizz-coated hand out over the grimy floor. Where was the proper dignity which should have been allotted to Michael's memory? Hadn't they been _brothers_? And they way they had parted for the last time… a nauseous wave passed over Trevor with a forceful finality. A few drunken fumbles in the dark twelve years ago were _not_ a _carte-blanche_ to cum all over Townley's memory whenever Trevor felt so inclined. It was sick. It was disrespectful, and it was _wrong_.

That gut feeling of being '_wrong'_ in every conceivable sense of the word spurred Trevor to his feet. He angrily wiped the rest of the cum off his body, rubbed his hand across his already-crusty sweatpants, and stormed out into the living room.

Ron sat casually on the couch, reading a discarded issue of _'Barely Legal Girls'_ with distant interest. When Trevor came into view, he shoved the issue beneath one thigh and looked up attentively. "Trevor! I was just, uhh-"

"-Shut up, Ron, I'm thinking."

"Oh! Sure, sure, you're thinking." Ron fumbled. "Fine, sure."

Michael Townley deserved _respect_. He was a fucking prick, but he had been a warrior, too. The real deal. At his core, he had been a true three bit gangster. A fucking king. He had stirred Trevor in ways he hadn't thought were still possible. Watching Townley work had always been like staring into a bright sunrise. Or something better. It had been the same elation that flying always brought on. It had tasted like freedom, like opportunity. Like the dry-sweet air you breathed in when flying over the tops of icy mountains, too light and heady and beautiful to ever truly be any good for you.

And yes, there was a lingering sense of arousal. But, hell, Trevor got hard-ons all the fucking time. He got a hard-on yesterday just from watching his ancient neighbor stuffing a bag of garbage down into her trashcan. That was beside the point. The point was…

The point was? The sweaty man repeated the same concerns mentally back to himself, glaring Ron down.

The point was that sacred Michael Townley deserved fucking _better_ than any of _this_. Better than anything in this trash heap of an existence.

"Ron," Trevor suddenly barked, knowing precisely what he wanted in the snap of a moment. "bring me Ashley Butler. Bring her to me right now, I don't give a shit what you tell her, just bring her to me. Bring her here and then get the FUCK OUT for three hours. You hear me? THREE HOURS."

"Sure, yeah! Ok, Trevor! I'll go- g-go get her! Right now!" The stammer forced itself out of his sweaty minion. Ron stood, arms stiff at his sides as he stared moistly at Trevor's face.

The taller man raised an eyebrow and waited a beat. "Well? …fucking NOW, RON! NOW."

Ron jumped again, and was gone from the trailer in less than a heartbeat.

Trevor shoved the thought aside that he was surrounded by idiots. (It was true, nothing for it.) Instead, he replaced it with the more productive thoughts of what he was about to do to Ashley Butler. Or more specifically, what he was about to do to a number of her orifices. If jerking off to the thought of a dead Michael Townley made him feel like he wanted to die, he would have to fuck the shit out of that dopey bitch until he couldn't think about _anything at all_. She seemed like the best option with Wade's pooper being out of commission... and honestly? At the moment? Trevor couldn't stand the thought of sticking his dick into anything that was going to _cry_ right after. He wasn't a TOTAL monster.

He mulled it over, and rumbled quietly in plan seemed solid. _Felt_, solid, he realized after a hand ghosted down to briefly grip his half-reinvigorated erection. It would do. It would _have to_ do. Michael Townley deserved respect, and fucking Ashley up the ass was the only way Trevor Philips could figure out how to show that.

"….You forget thousands of things every day…" he muttered to himself, and laid his palm over a bag of rock resting on the counter.

/

When he pulled back into the yard two hours later with a sack full of Sudafed slung over one shoulder, Wade instantly knew trouble was brewing. The very distinct sounds of Trevor violently fucking someone were, by this point, unfortunately known to Wade by heart. When the sound of a bottle breaking and a female yelp cut through the thin trailer walls, Wade immediately understood he would need to get his gun. Fucking Ashley Butler meant one thing; That messed up fella who had touched his thigh that one time after they'd all smoked together? Johnny? He would be making an appearance sometime in the not too distant future. But it was only when Ron came barreling into the yard not a moment later that Wade truly began to panic.

"-wuh, wuh what's-?! Now? Right _now_?" the Sudafed hit the ground, instantly forgotten.

"Don't do it, Johnny, it's not worth it, man! It's not worth it!" Ronald Jakowski shouted the jagged words out with a desperate tremor. The biker snorted a path behind him up the steps to the trailer, ignoring Ron's waving arms with the furious look of a raging bull. Johnny's face was beet red, almost cartoonish. Terrified visions flashed across Wade's mind as he ran towards the other men, though they mostly centered around the imminent fear that he would be forced to clean disemboweled biker guts off of the couch that Trevor would fuck Johnny to death on. Probably sometime in the next ten minutes.

The trailer door slammed open, seconds before the gaggle had reached the porch. Wade jumped about a foot, then fell away, somehow sensing the traffic about to blow backwards. Trevor stormed from the trailer, his face drained of all color. He seemed not to see them as he shoved his way out into the open, though as he brushed past Wade, the juggalo thought he heard him faintly mutter the words, _"…thousands of things…"_

A thousand things? What things? What now? Was it a game? The young man's fear was momentarily pushed away in favor of confusion.

"TREVOR!"

"STOP IT, JOHNNY!" Ashley skittered out onto the porch after Trevor's ominously silent exit. "Just LEAVE IT!"

"It's not worth it, Johnny! It's not worth it!"

Wade fell into the rush of the crowd, both flummoxed and panicky as he attempted to force dazed hands into some kind of action. He settled on a sort of full-body tremor which shoved everyone equally.

"We all get high! WE ALL GET HIGH! THAT DONT MAKE IT RIGHT!"

"Johnny, quit it man! I'm sorry Trevor, I'm sorry! I tried to stop him! I tried!"

"TREVOR!" the slippery surface of Johnny's leather jacket wormed itself out of Wade's balled fists. "TREVOR! I'M TALKING TO YOU, MOTHERFUCKER!"

Several paces down the road, Trevor finally came to a frightening stop. Wade glanced to a hand at his arm to see Ron silently shake his head once, before they both fell back.

"…Are you?" Trevor breathed the words towards Johnny at last in a hot gust. His voice was quiet, but even at a distance, the sound rolled across the dusty street and kissed Wade's ears with promises of pain. Always pain.

"Well, what are you saying?"

To most of the outside world, it was a reasonable, measured response. To Wade Hebert, the words sliced him with an icy bolt of fear. Something here was more than just '_a little off'_. More than yesterday, or the day before, more than any other day. Face fucking Wade was one thing. (At least he got drugs out of the other end of that deal, even if it _was_ a raw one.) This, though? THIS? This was _exactly_ the kind of Bat Shit Scary Trevor that Wade would literally run _miles_ to get away from. He squinted across the distance at Trevor's waxy pallor, at the way his hands shook with the a faint tremor… Hebert's second aunt by marriage, Miranda? Well, she had palsy AND Alzheimer's, and he remembered she sometimes had an expression a lot like this one… a kind of terrified fury, all sweat-drenched and shivering. If Wade didn't know any better, he would say that his friend looked like a burnt-out race horse. He was completely winded, and for some reason Johnny seemed not to be picking up on a single one of Trevor's cues. Was Trevor… scared? Petrified? No, not for himself. Angry? He had to be angry. He was _always_ angry. Or… was he? Even after an eon's worth of days spent staring at the criminal's wrinkled face, Trevor Philips was still a hard man to read. Something was wrong, that much was obvious. It was obvious even to Wade's own admittedly _basic functions_. But the question of 'what?' lingered frustratingly unanswered. Ashley pushed roughly past them, though she at least seemed to sense the inherent danger in the words being exchanged, and lingered hesitantly on the periphery.

"I think..?" Wade whispered loudly, even as he edged farther back. "…that we…" a few more steps, "…should get some plastic bags!"

"He's fucked!" Ron whispered in return, "He's fucking _fucked_!"

Like waiting for a jack-in-the-box to finally blow open, the three of them stood like quivering pillars, and watched.

/

_Michael_.

"Fucking my girl, man! It's wrong!"

_Fucking_.

"Well, I gotta fuck someone! You want me to fuck you instead? Is that the problem here?"

_Townley_.

Trevor caressed his hand softly across Johnny's stomach, taking in the mixture of revulsion and apology being fed back to him with a grain of sand. "Come on, cowboy… _lets fuck_."

Michael Townley's face behind a pair of Trevor's aviators as they rocketed down the highway with all the windows open. Michael Townley's shoulders, broad and confident, as they hightailed it down a rain-soaked stretch of concrete. Michael Townley's laughter as he flirted with a 15 year old bubblegum snapping motel clerk.

"Take off… your pants."

Michael Townley pressed up against a sweating brick alley wall, his pants undone as a hooker with orange lipstick sucked him off. Michael Townley's flushed face turned slightly towards him at a dive bar, their fingers barely brushing underneath the table. Michael Townley opening the door to his trailer, half-naked and still smelling like pussy and cheap vodka.

"You think this is _funny_?"

Michael Townley's veins bulging in his sweaty forehead, each of them shouting the other down for the 50th time that week. Michael Townley's pregnant whore of a stripper girlfriend glaring at him from across the room. Michael Townley's condescending look after suggesting they go on a road trip together. Michael Townley's wedding ring.

"GET THEM OFF!"

Michael Townley's face so close to his own that he can smell the breath rolling across his face, and it smells so sweet, god, like warm beer and morning breath and deer musk, until in the distance a baby starts crying and that warmth is replaced with a cold emptiness.

Michael Townley telling him to_ 'just leave.'_

Orange burned Trevor's vision, blinding him with the staggering weight of his own rage. His hands moved as they always had, roughly, and of their own accord. A bottle smashed, words ripped from his throat and exploded like molotov cocktails of anger and despair, and suddenly he was looking down at the pulpy mess of what had once been a normal human skull. Brain squished out from a series of snapped cavities, as if it was a meaty kind of toothpaste. (not that Trevor owned any toothpaste. He hadn't since 1989.) It didn't matter though. Nothing mattered. None of it was important, except for one thing. Somewhere in the distance a woman was howling with grief, but all it served as was becoming a backdrop to Trevor's recollections of a beloved movie quote being repeated on the news, then the numb buzz which filled his head immediately after hearing it.

"GET UP! GET UP! …NO? FUCK YOU, THEN!" He kicked Johnny's body one last time, feeling none of the pleasure he normally derived from the wet crunch of broken body parts.

Michael _fucking_ Townley… Trevor faintly registered Ron and Wade scurrying after him as he dragged himself across the road and back towards where his Bodhi was parked in the hot sun.

Michael. Please, _not_ _Michael_.

It couldn't be. It was too fucking cruel, even by Townley's standards. It was impossible. Not after all these years. All these _wasted years_ of worshiping Michael's memory, of canonizing that tubby snake like he was some kind of glorious martyred war hero. All those nights he'd slept on the cold dirt next to that fucking tombstone like some piece of shit dog who had lost it's master, lost a brother, had lost, lost, lost so many things… It was unspeakable in it's inhumane reality.

Michael fucking Townley...

And yet he knew, undeniably, irrefutably, that it was true.

…_Michael Townley was fucking ALIVE._


End file.
